


Lucky Stars (Or Sunday at the Firehall with Peter

by PennyLane



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:21:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PennyLane/pseuds/PennyLane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunday at the firehall with Peter. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky Stars (Or Sunday at the Firehall with Peter

            Slowly, and without opening his eyes _,_ Peter Venkman rolled over in bed until he was lying on his back. Then, like a cat after a nap, he extended his arms and legs in an exquisitely luxurious stretch, a deep sigh of contentment escaping his lips. It was only after he had performed that ritual and had once again relaxed his elongated muscles that he raised his eyelids to survey his surroundings.

            The window shades in the sleeping quarters had been lowered to keep out the afternoon sun, and be smiled to himself, remembering the whispers and carefully muffled sounds as his buddies had showered and dressed that morning. They must have pulled the shades before they left so he wouldn't be disturbed. Not that a little thing like the sun would have disturbed him today. He doubted if even the containment unit blowing would have awakened him.

            A glance at his bedside clock told him it was nearly two in the afternoon and be grinned in appreciation. Now _this_ was sleeping in. The Ghostbusters' lives had been so hectic over the last few weeks he'd had to forget about sleeping until noon on occasional Sundays; heck, he hadn't even been able to sleep until _seven_ most days. Last night after they had returned from a particularly exhausting bust he bad made dire threats against anyone who dared wake him _this_ Sunday until his body was ready to wake up on its own. Apparently they all knew him well enough to know he wasn't joking. Since even Slimer was missing from his usual snoozing position above his bed, he could only assume they had coaxed the spud away as well.

            The firehall was silent, the only noise at all in Ghostbuster Central coming from the muffled sounds of the relatively light Sunday afternoon traffic on the street below. Since he had been attuned to the traffic sounds of New York City all his life, they weren't really 'sounds' to him; much more noticeable was the quiet within the fireball itself. Ray and Winston had made plans to attend some sort of science fiction convention in the city, and Egon was spending the day with a mycologist friend of his who had flown in from the West Coast to give a series of lectures at Columbia. Well, if his buddies wanted to rub elbows with Klingons or talk about mushrooms on their first day off in weeks, that was fine with him. He, Peter Venkman, had better plans for _his_ free time. The first plan had been to sleep until he woke up. That accomplished, he could proceed to step two, which was a steaming hot shower of ecologically-incorrect duration. He grinned unrepentantly. Well, there was no one around to chide him for it, so why not? Then there was that John Wayne movie marathon on TNT. Add a sandwich or two of Dagwood proportions and a couple of beers and he just might be rested enough to go back to busting ghosts tomorrow. Maybe.

            As he climbed out of bed and made his way to the shower he made a mental note to check Janine's calendar. If those Monday busts weren't anything urgent, maybe he'd give the clients a call and see if he could reschedule them for later in the week. After all, two days off would be twice as good as one...

 

*****

            After a sinfully long time in the shower with not one Slimer interruption, Peter Venkman stepped out feeling _good._ Toweling himself off in the steamy bathroom, he dropped the damp towels onto the floor, hoping he remembered to collect them before Egon got home, then dressed in his favorite off-duty uniform of sweat pants and a Columbia University tee shirt that had seen better days. As he headed for the kitchen to satisfy his growling stomach, he caught light of movement in the TV room and stopped to poke his head in. A stagecoach was tearing across the screen of the television and Peter immediately recognized the backdrop of Monument Valley, the setting for some of his favorite John Wayne flicks. In front of the TV, bobbing excitedly in the air, was Slimer, headphones on his 'head.' Peter stared at the scene, one side of his mouth quirking as he realized those headphones must have been Ray's idea to keep Slimer from waking him with the sound of the TV. Then his smile turned into a grimace as he thought what they were going to be like now. Muttering "yuck" to himself, he turned and continued on in search of food.

 

*****

            In the middle of his second John Wayne western, Peter realized he was getting restless. All that sleep had apparently done him a little too much good, and those two bologna, liverwurst and pastrami sandwiches he'd consumed had settled in his stomach in a way that told him he'd better move around a bit now or pay for it later. Besides, he wasn't used to all the quiet around here. Slimer was usually a pretty noisy companion, but for a spud with the attention span of a doorknob, he sure was mesmerized by those westerns.                   ;

            With a sigh that turned into a grunt, Peter levered himself up to a sitting position on the sofa and set aside the bowl of popcorn which had been resting on his stomach. If be needed exercise, he knew exactly how to get it. It was his turn to do laundry and he hadn't emptied the clothes hamper all week. Not that he'd had _time_ to do any chores, he defended himself to his absent friends. They'd been doing busts overtime all week. Of course that argument wouldn't stand up today, he realized, pushing himself to his feet. He had heard Winston muttering to himself this morning as he sorted through his closet searching for a clean shirt, and Peter didn't think any of the guys would take too kindly to coming home finding him snoozing on the sofa when no one had any clean clothes to wear. Leaving Slimer to his movies, he headed for the bathroom to gather up his damp towels and empty the overflowing hamper. And people thought the life of a Ghostbuster was _glamorous_.

 

*****

            After stuffing one load into the washer and getting it started, Peter turned around and regarded the several piles of dirty clothes on the floor with dismay. Could four people really wear that many clothes in one week? Or use that many towels? Geez, he'd be at this until midnight! Well, there was no way to speed up the process unless he cut down on the washing time, and considering the amount of slime on some of those clothes he'd better not do that. The last time he'd tried even Ray had gotten on his case. He'd better be a little more careful with the sorting, too, he grinned, remembering the look on Egon's face when the physicist had pulled a pair of pink socks out of his dresser one morning. Well, it wasn't like anyone was going to _see_ them when he was wearing his boots, for crying out loud, but that argument had held little sway with Egon: after all, _he_ knew they were pink.

            Peter picked up a pair of white socks from the floor and looked at the rumbling washer consideringly. There was a load of nice, bright colors in there right now... Nah, that was too easy. Besides, he owed Spengs more than pink socks for that little stunt the big guy had pulled with Slimer and his pillow a couple of days ago. Tossing the socks back onto the pile of white sheets and underwear, he let them wait their turn in the washer. He'd think of something else. He always did.

            It was as he was turning away to search for the extra box of detergent, certain he would need it, that he saw the traps. The lights were still blinking steadily as they must have all night, indicating they were full. They were full all right, he scowled, remembering how he and his buddies had chased down no fewer than seven class two's last night while ducking the chairs and tables the miserable little spooks were tossing at them. It had been his turn to empty the traps, but all he'd had the energy to do was shove them into an inconspicuous corner and leave them for later before dropping into bed. He headed toward them now, grateful Egon hadn't happened down here to see them. He'd have gotten a lecture out of it for sure _._ And not completely undeserved, he admitted grudgingly. Even though a trap had never been breached--especially by a class two--the only safe place to keep a nether-entity was in the containment unit. That's where all the safeguards were and where all the monitoring equipment was set up to warn of escapes, and that's why they always emptied their traps when they came back from a bust. These little buggers weren't dangerous, but they could sure stir up trouble (as testified by his bruises) and he didn't want a repeat of last night's bust at that restaurant. Suitably self-chastised, he picked his way over the sprawled laundry and headed for the traps to do what he should have done last night.

            Carrying what his mother would have called a 'lazy man's load', balancing a full armload of traps instead of making two or more trips with fewer traps, he was headed for the containment unit when it happened. Unable to see where he was going because of the full load of traps, he misjudged his step around a pile of dirty clothes and caught his foot in a sheet. He tripped, and as he went down into a heap of slimy jumpsuits, the traps went flying. Luckily, most of them enjoyed a cushioned landing on top of the clothes and sheets littering the floor, no harm done. But one trap went skittering across the floor, coming up hard against the side of the containment unit. As soon as it hit, Peter knew his luck had run out The impact triggered the release and the little trap doors flew open. Almost immediately, a luminous blue ghost zipped out of the open trap and whirled around as if trying to figure out how it had come by its sudden good fortune.

            "Shit!" Recognizing all too well the 'leader' of that pack of goopers from last night--and the one that had lobbed the chair that had nearly taken his head off--Peter fought his way out of the tangled laundry to get to his feet. They always kept a functional proton pack in the basement, just in case, and he ran for it. But before he could get there, something soft hit him in the back of the head with enough force to make him stumble. With a start he realized the little creep was throwing laundry at him! Snarling, he whirled around only to find himself enveloped in a sheet that was tossed over him like he was a piece of furniture in storage. His curses muffled under the cover, he tore it away to see the blue ghost whizzing up the stairs. "Oh, swell," he moaned, grabbing the proton pack and taking off after the disappearing ghost. And on his day off, too.

            He had hit the top of the stairs before he remembered he'd neglected to grab a PKE meter to track his quarry. "Wonderful," he grumbled angrily, shrugging into his pack. You'd think this was his first day on the job. If any of the guys came back early and found him stumbling around like an amateur after that class two he'd never hear the end of it.

            There was no sign of the blue ghost, but he didn't think it had gone outside; more likely, it was hanging around here hoping to torment him some more. Raising his voice, he bellowed, "Yo, Slimer! Turn off that TV and get down here, NOW!"

            Even though the little spud rarely disobeyed him when he used that particular tone, Peter was still a little surprised when Sinner immediately squirted down through the ceiling. When the green ghost saw the proton rifle in Peter's hands and the grim look on his face, though, his yellow eyes went wide with alarm and he would have shot back through the ceiling if Peter hadn't hastily grabbed one skinny arm.

            "Whoa, Spud, hold on. I'm not gonna blast you." Slimer gave him such a dubious look Peter had to force himself to moderate his tone and wipe that ready-to-kill look off his face. "There's another ghost in the firehouse, Slimer. He got out of a trap in the basement. Can you find him?"

            Immediately, Slimer's face brightened and he bobbed up and down excitedly. "Sure, Peter, sure! Slimer find him!" Turning away from the psychologist, he began sniffing the air like a dog trying to pick up a scent. Within moments, he was drifting toward the stairs, motioning Peter to follow. Peter did, his proton rifle balanced in his hands. That little blue twerp wasn't going to get away again.

            They went all the way to the top floor and once there, Slimer turned in a circle, his face a picture of fierce concentration. Suddenly he stiffened and went into a perfect 'pointer' stance. Peter's narrowed eyes followed the direction of Slimer's nose and rested on the closed door of Egon's lab. So that's where it was.

            "Okay, Slimer," he said softly. "You stay out here. I'm gonna show this gooper you don't mess with a Ghostbuster, _especially_ on his day off."

            Pleased he had done such a good job, the little spud bobbed his head up and down like a yo-yo and flew off well to the side to watch the fireworks and probably to make sure he didn't get caught up in any of them. Very quietly, Peter opened the door to Egon's lab, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.

            The lab looked deserted. Peter let his eyes sweep the room, glancing over test tubes, bottles of various colored liquids, a disgusting looking fungus experiment Egon had been fussing over for the last two weeks, and several pieces of assembled and disassembled equipment of their trade. The blue ghost was nowhere in sight With a snort of disgust, Peter was about to turn around and give his 'bloodhound' a piece of his mind when something squirted out of one of Egon's test tubes with a shrill shriek. He brought his thrower up a fraction of a second too late and his stream of proton fire missed the class two by a margin that was downright embarrassing.

            "You're toast, you little slimeball," he growled, and swung his gun around, tracking the streaking target. But the ghost dived behind Egon's fungus experiment at the last minute, giving Peter no time to pull his shot. He could only stare in dismay as the physicist's prized mushroom literally went up in a cloud of smoke. Even while he was bringing his rifle around again to take aim on the class two, a part of his mind was furiously trying to figure out if he could possibly find another incredibly rare strain of mushroom to match the one he'd just fried and replace it before Egon got back... Probably not. Hadn't Egon said that particular fungus grew only in one square mile radius of a remote area in Washington State near the Canadian border? Well, that was just great. Now on top of everything else, he'd have to tell Egon he'd ruined his precious experiment. Cripes, and all he'd wanted was a lousy day off!

            "All right, that's it," he snarled. "You're history, pal. See how you like--" Peter broke off with a yelp of surprise as the blue gooper suddenly scooped up a collection of test tubes and bottles from Egon's lab table and began throwing them at him. The test tubes were empty, but those bottles had chemicals in them and he quickly danced out of the way as they shattered on the floor. He didn't know what all Spengs had up here but he knew enough about chemistry to realize some of that stuff could be dangerous if it made contact with his bare skin. It was starting to smell in here, too, as the potentially caustic liquids began to merge on the floor. Glancing around at the broken glass and spilled liquids, it suddenly occurred to him that now he would have the lab to clean up, as well. Wonderful. This was turning out to be the Day Off from Hell.

            Furious, Peter ducked one hurled bottle of greenish liquid and came up firing, crowing in triumph as his proton stream zapped the little blue gooper and held it frozen in place. "That'll teach you to mess with a Ghostbuster," he gloated, and reached for the trap secured to his pack. "Maybe next time, you'll-you'll" His words caught in a strangle as he suddenly realized he couldn't breathe. Not only couldn't he get any air _into_ his lungs, it felt like something had forced all the air _out_ of them, too. It was as if his lungs were--paralyzed. He couldn't even scream for help. The next thing he knew the floor was rushing up to meet his face and there was nothing he could do about it.

 

*****

            Egon Spengler paid the taxi driver his fare, then unlocked the door to Ghostbuster Central and stepped inside. It was a shame Roy Marsten's wife had become ill this morning. Roy had been apologetic about cutting their planned visit short, but he hadn't wanted to leave her alone in their hotel room too long. He and Egon hadn't had the time to reminisce or share theories as much as they would have liked, but Roy would be in town for a week and they planned to get together again before he left to return to San Diego. And, even better, Roy had promised to come see that rare strain of mushroom he'd been cultivating.

            Egon was shutting the door behind him when a shrill shriek brought him sharply around, his arm automatically lifting to reach for a non-existent proton pack. He barely had time to register the fact that the green streak zooming toward him was Slimer and no time at all to duck. The little ghost splattered against him, skinny arms wrapping around his neck, and babbled something completely incomprehensible at a much higher decibel level than was healthy for his ears.

            "Slimer, please," he said sternly and pried the gibbering ghost away with a grimace. "What on earth-"

            "Peter! Peter! Hellllpp!"

            "Peter?" That was the first word Egon had been able to decipher. "What about Peter?" If these histrionics were all because Peter had been after Slimer with a thrower again...

            The little ghost was pointing frantically at the stairs. "Fell down. Won't wake up."

            "Fell down?" Egon began running for the stairs. "You mean he had an accident?"

            "Ghost!"

            Spengler stopped just as he was about to take the steps three at a time. "Ghost? But how--never mind." Turning away, he quickly retrieved his proton pack and was shrugging it on over his sports jacket as he again took to the stairs. Slimer was ahead of him the whole way, urging him on, and didn't stop until they reached the top floor. There, the green ghost pointed insistently at the closed lab door. Pulling his thrower, Egon grasped it firmly with one hand as he grabbed the door knob with the other. "Peter? Peter, it's Egon. I'm coming in." He flung open the lab door and prepared to rush in. Instead, he froze in the doorway, his face draining in horror. Stumbling back, he slammed the door shut and leaned against it, his knees weak.

            "Oh, God," he wheezed, coughing to rid himself of the fumes be had inadvertently breathed. _Peter is in there._ Egon had seen him for the brief second he had stood in the doorway; the psychologist lay crumpled on the floor, unconscious, surrounded by broken glass and little pools of liquid chemicals-- and an those fumes. Tearing off his pack he dropped it to the floor. "Slimer, I'm going in after Peter. When I bring him out, you close this door, you understand? _Close_ it." The little spud looked frightened at the sharpness of his tone, but nodded obediently.

            Egon paused only long enough to take three deep breaths, and on the third threw open the door and plunged inside. Even without breathing he could almost taste the fumes, and his eyes began to tear as the noxious smell of the mingled chemicals assaulted his senses. Not allowing himself to think beyond the moment and the urgency of getting Peter out of there, he grabbed the unconscious man under the arms and dragged him out of the lab, proton pack and all, avoiding the broken glass as well as he could.

            As soon as they were out, Slimer slammed the door shut. Dropping to his knees beside the psychologist, Egon sucked in deep breaths of untainted air as he fumbled to strip off Peter's proton pack. When the catch finally opened, he hefted the younger man up into a fireman's carry and ran to the bedroom as fast as his shaky legs would take him.

            "Slimer, open all the windows," he panted. "Hurry." While Sinner hurried to comply, he dumped Peter carefully onto his four-poster bed, spun around to slam the bedroom door shut, then returned to the bed. The fumes in the lab were a problem, but they would have to wait. Peter hadn't made a sound, hadn't moved... With a hand that was visibly shaking, Egon pressed two fingers against the younger man's neck, biting his lower lip in such fierce concentration he tasted blood. "Yes!" he exclaimed suddenly, his voice breaking. "Yes!" There was a pulse--faint, thready, but a pulse, and it was beating with the kind of stubborn determination Egon recognized so well in his friend. But that was only half the battle: Peter wasn't breathing.

            The lessons learned in every first aid and CPR class he had ever taken suddenly rushed back to him as he fought not to let the enormity of the situation overwhelm him. There wasn't even time to call 911. God only knew how long Peter had been in that lab and how long his brain had already been deprived oxygen. He needed air in his lungs _immediately._ Quickly tilting the psychologist's head to clear an airway, Egon pinched the other man's nostrils shut, fitted his mouth over Peter's and exhaled.

            _Exhale. Stop. Listen. Exhale. Stop. Listen. Exhale. Stop. Listen._ In the background, Egon was only vaguely aware of Slimer flitting around anxiously, babbling unintelligible questions about Peter. Beyond that, he was aware of nothing except the sound of his own breath leaving his lungs to fill his friend's and the sound of that same air in turn being automatically expelled from Peter's. But there had been no response on Peter's part, no indication his body was willing to take on the act of breathing on its own.

            Egon's life was filled with _Exhale. Stop. Listen._ Where there was a pulse, there was hope, he told himself over and over. Peter's heart was beating; he was _alive._ But how long had Peter's brain been denied oxygen? How long had he breathed those fumes? What kind of unseen damage had they done? Could that damage be undone? He wished desperately for professional help, but he didn't dare pause long enough to call for paramedics. He couldn't miss even one breath; that one breath could make all the difference. _Exhale. Stop. Listen. Exhale. Stop. Listen. Exhale. Stop. Lis--_

            There was a cough, a weak, wheezy cough. At that moment, Egon thought it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

            "Peter!" Quickly lifting his head from where he had it positioned to listen for Venkman's exhaled breath, Egon waited only long enough to see his friend's chest rise with his second inhaled breath before turning to snatch up the phone and dial 911.

            The conversation with the emergency operator took only seconds, then Egon was back sitting on the bed beside his unconscious friend. Automatically he picked up Peter's left hand and squeezed it. "Peter? Peter, can you hear me? It's Egon. Please try to wake up." His eyes searched the psychologist's slack face for any reaction, then slumped a little in disappointment when there was none. He frowned suddenly as he noticed for the first time the ugly chemical burn on Peter's right arm and the sluggishly bleeding cuts on both. Quickly pulling out a clean handkerchief, he dabbed at the cuts, his breath exploding in relief when he saw they seemed to be superficial. The way broken glass littered the lab floor, Peter could have done himself serious damage falling as he had, severing an artery or gouging an eye or... _His eyes!_

            Remembering how his own eyes bad stung and watered in his brief exposure to the fumes, Egon leaned over the brown-haired man, laying a hand on the cool forehead. _What if he got some of those chemicals in his eyes? There's no sign of burning around his eyes, but still..._ Using his thumb, he carefully raised one closed lid to reveal a bloodshot eye. At that moment, Venkman drew a sharp breath and jerked his head to the side, almost dislodging Egon's hand. "Peter?" The physicist gently stilled Peter's head. "Easy, Peter, easy. It's all right. I'm here." Green eyes blinked open, and a relieved smile nearly split Egon's face. "Peter!" But a moment later his smile vanished as Venkman merely stared blankly at him, no hint of recognition or awareness in his gaze. Then the psychologist's eyes slid shut again, leaving Egon's heart thudding in alarm. But before he could attempt again to rouse his friend, the sharp wail of sirens below announced the arrival of the paramedics, and he reluctantly turned away to run downstairs to let them in.

 

*****

            _Come on, come on. **Ring**._ Egon stared at the pay phone tucked into a corner just outside the small waiting room at St. Luke's and willed it to ring. He hadn't wanted to call Ray until he had some definite--and hopefully positive--information about Peter, but he had already been waiting so long he decided he couldn't put it off any longer. _At least Ray was wearing his beeper. That's something._

            A faint smile relieved his worried features as he thought about those pagers: they were Peter's latest toys. He had bought four of them, proclaiming it was only good sense to be able to track down one another in an emergency. Janine had sniffed at that, declaring the only reason Peter wanted one was because he loved having himself paged in public. Peter had merely grinned, not bothering to deny it.

            Egon and Winston accepted the beepers with equanimity, seeing some sense in Peter's explanation, but Ray embraced his with the same enthusiasm Peter did. The two of them had played like kids, beeping each other just to hear the pagers go off. Well, they had come in handy today, he thought soberly, his smile fading. At least he hadn't had to leave a message with someone at the convention for Ray and Winston to hurry over to St. Luke's Hospital and trust it had been delivered. Once Ray called he could tell him himself...

            Although he'd been waiting for it, the sudden jangle of the phone made him jump. He snatched up the receiver. "Egon Spengler."

            Ray's surprised voice came over the phone. "Egon? Where are you?" Then, quickly, with an edge of worry, "Is something wrong?"  

            Egon took a deep breath to steady his voice and tried to remember the explanation he'd rehearsed in his head. "Ray, there's been an accident at the firehall." Quickly be explained to Stantz what had happened in the lab and how he had found Peter, concluding with their arrival at the hospital and Peter being whisked away while he was left to wait.

            Ray didn't bother to disguise his fear. "How bad do you think--"

            "I don't know." Egon slipped off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "He was breathing on his own when the paramedics got to the firehall, but he didn't regain consciousness on the way to the hospital." His eyes slid shut as he again remembered the vacant look in Venkman's eyes for the one, brief moment Peter seemed to wake up. "I can only assume they're still running tests to determine if there was any..." He stopped just short of saying, "permanent damage."

            Winston's voice came over the phone, calm, but with a thread of urgency through it. "Egon, we're on our way. You hang in there, you hear? We'll be there as soon as we can."

            Spengler nodded, his eyes on the waiting room door as he searched in vain for a doctor to appear with some answers. "Hurry," was all he said before he slowly hung up the receiver.

 

*****

 

            Egon consulted his watch one more time, then rubbed his eyes and continued his aimless pacing around the small waiting room. It was a good thing this particular room was empty; he was certain his constant prowling would have annoyed others forced to endure the endless waiting that always seemed to accompany emergency hospital visits.

            Passing a glass-framed print he had passed countless times on his back-and-forth journeys, he caught a reflection of himself and sighed. He automatically reached up to push his glasses back into position, then removed the open tie that was trailing forlornly down the front of his shirt. He had ripped the tie open during his attempts to re-establish Peter's breathing and had forgotten about it. Tucking it absently into his pocket, he resumed his pointless walk.

            Egon knew every chemical he had in that lab, knew what lethal fumes could be produced by unwise or accidental combinations of those chemicals. What he didn't know was how long Peter had been exposed to those fumes and what damage might have been done. Reaching a corner of the room, he made an abrupt turn and retraced his steps back across the floor. He had to stop thinking about that, had to stop thinking what those fumes could have done to Peter's brain or his nervous system, had to stop thinking he might have been too late...

            He stopped in his tracks. Dear God, what if Roy's wife hadn't gotten ill? What if he'd stayed with Roy the whole day as they had planned? Ray and Winston weren't planning to return until late tonight. If he hadn't returned to the firehall until this evening, he would have come home to Peter's corpse. Egon dropped down onto the small couch as his legs suddenly weakened. Taking his glasses off, he laid them aside and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. He had to stop thinking about what might have been. If he could just get some _answers._ What was taking them so long?

            Sighing deeply, he replaced his glasses on his nose and stared blankly at an amateurish painting of a fall scene on the opposite wall and wondered how long it had been hanging crooked like that. Shaking his head, he climbed to his feet and resumed his pacing. He still didn't know exactly what had happened back at Central. He had gotten enough out of Slimer to know the trouble had been caused by a blue ghost, but that really told him nothing. Whatever it was, it had fled Central before he got there.

            "Doctor Spengler?"

            Egon spun around to see a young doctor with wire-rimmed glasses, thick brown hair, and a neatly trimmed beard standing in the doorway of the waiting room, chart in hand. The physicist strode quickly across the room. "Yes, I'm Egon Spengler. How's Peter?"

            With an understanding smile, the physician answered the question before bothering to introduce himself. "He's conscious and aware of his surroundings. We've run several tests, which I'll be glad to review with you, but the bottom line is, there appears to be no permanent damage from those fumes he inhaled." When Egon's held breath exploded in a heartfelt, "Thank God," the doctor clapped him sympathetically on the arm. "It was close," he said soberly. "I've looked over the list of chemicals you gave the paramedics and I have to tell you, he was damn lucky. A few more minutes in a closed room with those fumes and there wouldn't have been anything anyone could have done."

            Egon nodded. That much he had surmised himself. "But he's going to be all right?" he pressed. He needed to hear it again, to hear it confirmed.

            The doctor smiled reassuringly. "Right now he's suffering a monumental headache and an upset stomach, and I'm afraid they'll be with him for a day or two yet, but he's going to be fine. There's a chemical burn on his right arm we've treated, and some cuts I was concerned about, but all the blood tests have indicated there was no chemical contamination. His eyes are a little irritated, but again, there was no permanent damage and we've given him eye drops to make him more comfortable. We're going to keep him overnight just as a precaution, but I expect him to be released tomorrow morning. After that, he might feel listless for another day or so, but that's no cause for alarm. He had some pretty nasty stuff in his system and it's going to take time for it to dissipate. He should just take it easy, and as soon as he feels up to it, he can resume his normal activities."

            Spengler sighed in relief. "Thank you, Doctor-- " He stopped, remembering he hadn't allowed the man to introduce himself.

            "Levinson. Joe Levinson." The brown-haired man held out his hand and Egon accepted it in a firm handshake.

            "Dr. Levinson. Can I see him?"

            "He's been asking for you." Levinson turned and waved for Egon to follow. "I'm going that way. We've got him in a private room, so I won't hold you to visiting hours, but don't tire him out. He might seem a little groggy, but that's because of the painkillers we gave him and something to settle his stomach. They _should_ knock him out, but he's been fighting them." The doctor added wryly, "He was quite insistent I find you."

            Egon smiled as he matched his gait easily to the doctor's brisk one. Yes, even a fully medicated Peter Venkman could be quite a handful

 

*****

 

            The door to Peter's room was open and Egon walked in noiselessly, stopping just inside. Peter, looking exhausted and very pale, had a damp washcloth covering his eyes and his arms were laying on top of the covers, the right one bandaged from elbow to wrist where he'd been burned by contact with caustic chemicals. Egon moved to the side of the bed, stood looking at him for a moment, then covered the psychologist's right hand with his and gave it a gentle squeeze.

            Peter's reaction was immediate. "Egon?" Reaching up with his free hand, Venkman pulled off the cloth and blinked groggily at Spengler with bloodshot eyes.

            Egon responded by fully enveloping Peter's hand in his. "Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?"

            A weak grin tilted the psychologist's lips. "Guess not." Then his grin faded and he sighed. "Sorry about the lab, Spengs. And the mushroom."

            "Mushroom? What about--"

            Peter brought his gaze up to lock with Egon's. Even though Venkman's green eyes were hazy from medication, Egon could detect the fine lines of pain around them. "I fried it," he admitted.

            Egon stared at him, momentarily stunned. "You blasted my _armiphyllis maximus?"_ For an instant Egon remembered all the time and effort it had taken to locate the rare fungus, the expense of having it properly removed from its place of origin and shipped to him, the painstaking efforts he had put into cultivating it over the last two weeks, and the pride he would have taken in showing it off to Roy Marsten. Then in the next heartbeat he dismissed it all; it was only a mushroom. "I consider myself very fortunate, Peter," he said seriously, "in that everything I lost can be replaced. The only thing in that firehall that was irreplaceable is safe."

            Venkman looked at him a long time, then turned his hand under Egon's and closed his fingers tightly around the physicist's. "Thanks to you," he whispered. "The doc said if it hadn't been for you..." Egon could feel the shudder that traveled through the psychologist's body. "Thanks, buddy."

            There was a haunted look in the back of Peter's eyes that made Egon strive for the type of humor Peter was so good at. "I'd say 'anytime', but I wouldn't want you to make a habit of it," he said dryly.

            But Venkman didn't react to his attempt to lighten the mood; instead his gaze slid away from Egon's face. "I guess I was pretty far gone, huh?"

            The note of fear that had crept into Peter's voice caused Egon to rub a thumb over the chilled hand in his. "Far enough to give me the scare of my life."

            Still avoiding his eyes, Peter asked hesitantly, "How long did it take to, you know...?" stopping just short of saying 'bring me back'.

            Spengler lowered himself down on to the edge of the bed and considered the younger man before answering quietly, "A lifetime."

            That brought Peter's eyes up to meet his. Egon didn't need the little tug on his hand to prompt him to action. He was already leaning over to slide an arm under Peter and draw him into a warm embrace. The arm that snaked around his back tightened to pull him closer. They stayed like that for a long time, both of them needing the reassurance of the other's presence.

            Finally Egon felt his friend's arm relax a fraction and likewise loosened his own grip and drew back. "You should let the medication do what it's supposed to do, Peter," he chided gently. "Try to get some sleep."

            "Not too crazy about sleeping right now," Venkman mumbled, and Egon could hear the thread of strain in his voice. No, he probably wouldn't be too crazy about sleeping himself if he had gone through what Peter had. "I remember...I think I remember waking up once."

               Spengler looked at him in surprise. "You remember that? I wasn't even sure--" He hesitated before finishing, "I wasn't sure you were actually conscious."

            "It's pretty fuzzy," Venkman admitted, "I don't really remember seeing anything, but I remember hearing your voice." He avoided Egon's eyes as he added, "You sounded scared."

            "I was scared," Egon said in a level voice. Pulling the visitor's chair over next to the bed, he sank down into it and regarded his friend. _The only thing in that firehall that was irreplaceable is safe._ It was terrifying to think how close they had come. A minute here, a minute there. If the taxi driver had stopped for even one yellow light instead of accelerating through it on the way back to Central. If he had lingered an extra minute or two with Roy Marsten. Either one of those two little innocent 'ifs'-- and perhaps a hundred others he hadn't even thought of--could have cost him Peter. "Would you like to tell me what happened?" he asked suddenly, as much to clear his head of those thoughts as to accommodate Peter's desire to avoid sleep.

            Venkman stirred uncomfortably. "I screwed up."

            Smiling faintly, Egon tapped the younger man's hand. "Would you mind elaborating?"

            Avoiding Egon's steady gaze, Peter told his story in a low, mumbling voice. When he finished, there was silence. Reluctantly, he raised his eyes to meet Spengler's. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

            His voice tight, the physicist said tersely, "I'd say 'screwed up' pretty much sums it up."

            Venkman waved his right hand in a weak gesture of apology. "Okay, so I forgot to empty the traps."

            "No, Peter, you didn't _forget_ to empty the traps. You deliberately disregarded one of our primary safety rules, a rule meant for the safety of all of us." Egon was hot now, feeling his face flush from his growing anger. "That rule being we always-- always--empty the traps after a bust. That was your responsibility. And because of your irresponsibility--"

            "Okay, Egon, you've made your point," Peter interrupted, irritation creeping into his own tone.

            But Egon continued his tirade as if Peter had never interrupted, "--you could have been killed. And for what? Because you were too careless to take your turn to--"

            "Egon, I'm gonna tell you one more time--" Peter broke off, a strange look coming over his face. "I'm *wheeze* not gonna *wheeze wheeze* lay here and *wheeze*--"

            Spengler was halfway out of his chair, his features frozen in alarm. "Peter are you--" It must have been the innocent look Peter threw him because the alarm instantly turned to suspicion, then irritation. Sinking back into his chair he said in a deadly voice, "That was low, Peter. Even for you."

            Venkman's grin was tired but unrepentant. "Yeah, but at least I got your attention."

            Egon was still glowering at him, his eyebrows drawn into a straight line over the bridge of his nose. "You're lucky you didn't get more than that," he said flatly.

            Peter reached out and gave the physicist's hand a quick apologetic pat. "Believe me, Spengs, no one's madder at me than I am for not emptying those traps, no matter how tired I was last night."

            Egon shook his head in immediate denial. "I'm not really angry at _you,_ Peter."

            "Sure you are," Venkman said, a wry grin touching his lips. "Or at least you should be. I know I get pretty pissed off when one of my friends has the audacity to nearly get himself killed." His grin widened impishly and he wagged a finger at the physicist "Remember last week when you slipped in the mud when we were trying to bag that class seven and nearly got fried by our throwers?"

            Spengler smiled ruefully at the memory. "Vividly. As I recall, you spent the next hour or two yelling at everyone in sight."

            Venkman shrugged. "Anger. It's only unhealthy when you try to hold it in or choose the wrong way to release it." He yawned suddenly as he at last began to lose his battle against the medication. "Just don't stay mad at me too long, okay?"' he added softly, closing his fingers around Egon's as his eyes drifted shut.

            Egon let his breath out in a shaky sigh as the last of his anger drained away, leaving only relief at their good fortune. "You must have been born under a lucky star, Peter Venkman," he whispered, tucking Peter's hand under the covers, then gently replacing the cool washcloth over his closed eyes.

            Peter's lips curved in a dreamy smile. "I must've been," he murmured drowsily. "I got you for a friend, didn't I?" Then he gave a little sigh and his breathing evened out in a way to tell Egon he was finally asleep.

            Spengler carefully smoothed the covers over his friend's chest, allowing his hand to linger there for a moment just to feel the even rise and fall that indicated Peter's breathing. He gave the chest a gentle pat, then sat back in his chair, permitting himself an affectionate smile. "I'd say we were both born under lucky stars."

            That said, he stretched his long legs out in front of him and prepared to spend the night.

 

**_< fin>_ **


End file.
